


The Back Harlow Road

by ThisDominionIsMine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon levels of violence, M/M, Revenge, Sexual Assault, Sourwolf Alpha awesomeness, hunter/werewolf dynamics, pack!feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisDominionIsMine/pseuds/ThisDominionIsMine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With all the supernatural crap ruining his life, Stiles has, for a while, sort of figured that mundane, non-hunter humans aren’t really going to cause him that many problems anymore. He’s got an Alpha werewolf on speed dial, after all, and he’s living with two Betas – what’s scary about a pair of guys with knives, compared to that? It's an unfortunate logic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Back Harlow Road

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: battered, broken, and bloodied.  
> Cross-posted on Tumblr at thewinstonisin

With all the supernatural crap ruining his life, Stiles has, for a while, sort of figured that mundane, non-hunter humans aren’t really going to cause him that many problems anymore. He’s got an Alpha werewolf on speed dial, after all, and he’s living with two Betas – what’s scary about a pair of guys with knives, compared to that?

The thing is, though, that Stiles is the son of a sheriff, and knows better – or should. He does, afterward. But that’s after. In the before, when it’s Stiles in an alleyway (because Gerard is roaming the streets like a proper sociopath, godfucking _damn_   _him – damn him to the lowest circle of **Hell**_ ) and a pair of very human men with very sharp knives blocking the way out, an Alpha werewolf on speed dial doesn’t do a whole lot.

He dials, yeah, that’s true, but even though Derek picks up on the first ring, it’s still too much time wasted, and too many miles between them, for it to matter. Stiles hears his name uttered as the phone is knocked from his hand. He doesn’t hear it hit the ground, but he hopes it shatters, or that the call gets cut, or that Derek has enough self-preservation instinct left to hang up, because he’s getting shoved chest-first into a grimy wall, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s coming next, and nobody (with or without supernatural hearing abilities) deserves to listen to that.

Stiles knows what he looks like. He knows what some men are liable to see in his long fingers, in the smooth curve of his neck and the narrow slant of his hips, and he knows that the flex of muscle in his arms isn’t necessarily going to put them off. It’s been mentioned before, and, yes, it scared him, so he went and did research, and he learned things, and that scared him even more. So, yeah, he knows. And knowing is all very well, until you forget, because you think you have better things to worry about. Things like werewolves and geriatric sociopaths.

He screams, because everyone knows that’s what you do, because the chances of them actually killing you are fairly low, but all it does is get his skull cracked against gritty concrete and a paw of a hand clamped over his mouth. So he bites that, because it’s instinct, and that gets his head rattled against the wall again, and again, and again, until he’s got tears in his eyes and can’t distinguish his left arm from the floor.

If Stiles was anything other than a complete and determined atheist, he’d pray that Derek has hung up by now, or called the police, or is coming to get him-

Except no one knows where he is.

Stiles bites down on the hand silencing him once more and tastes salt, gets his mouth open wide enough that he thinks he might be able to close teeth around a bone, but then they  _slam_ him into the wall, and the rough surface of it is dragging against his face, and now he thinks his jaw might actually be cracked, if not broken, but he’s barely even conscious of that over the realization that his pants are  _gone_ , and every system in his brain screams into high alert when-

shit–

There’s nothing to gag on, but he’s doing it anyway, teeth scraping over the concrete, ripping open scratches on his cheek –

– two of them,  _two of them, **fuck –**_

He is  _sobbing._

The world catches and drags at the edges, and he keeps thinking that Derek’s coming out of the shadows ( _please, please, please, let him have hung up)_ -

“Don’t deny that you were asking for it.”

_Derek Hale could slit you open from crotch to collarbone with the tip of one claw. Derek Hale could… Derek…_

“ _Derek_ -”

“That your little fuckbuddy? Where’s he now?” – shoving until he’s going to  _burn_ and  _die_ in a puddle of his own  _blood_ – he  _wants_ to,  ** _please_** , better than  _this ­–_ “Where’s ya knight in armor  _now_?”

He’s  _bleeding_  –

_Don’t let Derek be listening –_

“Fucking slut for it, you are; you’re a whore, practically  _begging_ …”

Stiles lets his fingertips tear open on the wall, lets his forehead skid against it, bleeding down into his eyes, closes them so he doesn’t have to watch it all trickle down, stops bothering to remember to breathe.

 

They stuff forty dollars into his hand when they clean themselves up and stride off, whistling and slapping each other on the back, talking about which bar they’re going to next. He stays where they leave him, on his knees, forehead still pressed to the wall, shirt stretched and dragging and filthy. He watches the headlights whiz by on the street out of the corner of one eye.

As part of the tenth grade English curriculum, they read  _The Kite Runner_  in class. He remembers the boys in that book who were raped, how they died inside afterwards, took years to rebuild, if they didn’t kill themselves first (and just that tangent wakes him up a little bit: he’s been raped now; he’s part of the statistic).

The next time the wind gusts down the alley and makes him shiver, he shoves back from the wall, falls on his bare ass. He doesn’t worry about it – that’s the least shameful thing to happen to him in the last hour – and fumbles around until he finds his pants, twisted and filthy, but still all in one piece, because life can still give him little things.

That being said: he can’t really call himself a virgin anymore, can he?

Pants only around his knees, he leans off to the side and retches up bile, adding it to the pool of disgusting things that have been spilled on the floor of this alley tonight. Once his head clears, he manages to lever his pants the rest of the way back on, underwear gone because he wouldn’t even be able to look at it without throwing up again, and tries to force himself back to his feet.

He gets halfway up before his knees give out, and then he’s sprawled on the ground, cursing, when he hears his phone’s dial tone. It’s not even two feet from his right arm, screen bright, like, like…

Like a call just ended.

The Camaro sounds like an avalanche when its brakes get slammed on so hard that even the anti-locking system gives out and sends it skidding ten yards past the mouth of the alley. Stiles is still staring at his phone, but he hears the convulsive roar, and the slamming of doors, and the pounding of more than one person’s feet.

Isaac has bigger hands than Derek, with longer fingers more reminiscent of claws, made werewolf or no, and he’s got longer legs, so it is those hands that brush across Stiles’ skin first, hesitant to grip or grab, because they know to some degree – and he heard, he  _heard_ ; he must have – what it feels like to be touched harshly when you are still so fractured. “Stiles,” he says.

In the background, there is Scott: “I’m gonna kill ‘em; I’m gonna  _fuckin’ **gut ‘**_ em; I’m gonna – I’m gonna-”

“Get the scent; they must have left something…”

“They can’t be far.”

“Stiles, do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes,” he intones, and looks up, at where Isaac is hovering in a crouch, expression stricken. He tries to remember how to smile. “Hi, Isaac.”

All the blood leaves Isaac’s face. “Stiles, we – ”

“Not your fault. Shut up.” He glances around, finds Derek at the alley mouth, posture too broken to be considered looming. “You shoulda hung up.”

“No,” Derek says back. “Never.”

“Well, you just gave your pack nightmares for the rest of their lives for no reason, then, not to mention  _yourself_  – what are you doing?”

Derek doesn’t reply immediately, just finishes peeling off his jacket. He opens his mouth to say something, stops, swallows, then tries again: “May I have your shirt?”

It’s all dirt and blood and semen now – nothing he’ll miss. Isaac helps him ease it off, is kind enough not to embarrass him by wincing at the damage underneath when he hands it over to Derek and takes the jacket in its place. “I’m going to ruin this,” Stiles tells them, but Isaac guides his hands through the sleeves anyway, while Derek stares at them and balls Stiles’ shirt in his hands like he’s an inch from ripping it to shreds. Stiles watches him do it. “You won’t get much of their scent off that.”

“We’ll get plenty.” Derek’s eyes flash red as he turns his head away, and he raps out Scott’s name like an order. Scott is fully wolfed out when he appears around the corner to take the shirt from Derek, and Jackson is next to him, sprouting fur even as they pass the fabric between them and bolt off into the darkness. When Derek looks back at the pair crouched in the alley, he is fully human. “Any requests, Stiles?”

“If you kill them, Chris Argent will be on your Sourwolf ass before sunrise.”

Something  _bestial_ rolls out of Derek’s chest. “If Chris Argent would like to go to war over a pair of rapists, he is not the human I thought he was.” He steps towards them, then, crouches down, and looks Stiles in the eye. “The pack takes care of its own.”

He can feel Isaac nodding next to him.

“You’re an idiot,” he croaks.

“I’m a Sourwolf,” Derek corrects him. “And an Alpha.” He touches one knuckle to Stiles’ cheek, which is torn open and raw and  _on fire_ , just like so many parts of him. “And you  _are_  pack.” His mouth twitches. “The first thing I’ll do is castrate them.”

Stiles makes a sound like he’s choking, and he doesn’t even know what he actually means it to be. He licks his lips, tastes salt that could be from any of four different substances, and makes himself breathe around the rising lump in his throat. “Don’t make me get weepy over torture and eventual murder – I’ll kill you, I swear.”

It’s Derek’s turn to make unidentifiable sounds, but it lasts for only a smattering of seconds before a howl rings out in the near distance.  _They really didn’t go far, did they?_  “Take him back to the apartment,” he tells Isaac, and then he leans in and kisses Stiles forehead, just the barest brush of lips to abused skin, and smooths his thumb over the swollen joint of Stiles’ jaw. “We’ll be back before sunrise,” he promises, and then he’s rocking back and up, snapping his neck like he always does while the fangs slide out and the claws extend, and then he’s bounding off through the darkness to some other desolate corner where two men are probably already pinned in a corner and screaming.

It takes three tries for Stiles to find his feet even with Isaac’s help, and he leans on him all the way to the Camaro. Sitting down hurts, and buckling in hurts, and leaning against the window hurts most of all, but he does it all anyway, and stares out through the glass at the lights sliding by, and blames the wispy threads of fog on the fact that everything is too wobbly and blurry to see properly.

The disappearance of two teachers from a private Catholic school the next town over makes page 3 of the morning’s newspaper, which Scott delivers to him in bed with a smug grin, a hug, and a plate of pancakes drowning in maple syrup. It hurts Stiles to smile back, but he does anyway.


End file.
